Out of Place
by tehToastwillEatU
Summary: Eyes as lifeless and blank as the deceased, an expression only matching the same. Not a smile, not a twitch of the lips nor an open breath. He was a painting of secrecy, a painting of forever silence. Rated M for mentions of graphic violence


Eyes as lifeless and blank as the deceased, an expression only matching the same; yet stern—cold. Not a smile, not a twitch of the lips nor an open breath. Rifle in a glove seethed hand clinking along with the steady march of military boots. Thousands of them.

The march was stopped, a halt took order; each statue aligned in a perfect segment. Each one painted with the same painting.

A painting of secrecy, a painting of forever silence.

Loyalty.

No secret tints of color in their eyes, not a stray of an unbalanced color shown. Each brush stroke painted with perfection, not by an artist, but by the very callous hands of the ones who held their rifles with such diligence.

Layers of paint so thick on such a small canvas, but the beauty and stationary of such a striate piece…

So out of place.

The paint dripped so heavily; the thick liquid seeping through the print. But blood isn't paint.

The butts of rifles synced in contact as they were placed roughly by the heels of each armored boot. Stiff hands raised in solute, statues once again.

One stood out.

It was not out of alignment, neither cracked nor broken. Just out of place.

Hazel eyes as lifeless and blank as the deceased, an expression only matching the same; yet stern—cold. The tip of the rifle raised and pressed gently into rust colored locks, glove seethed finger lightly placed on the trigger.

_Click_

Germany awoke with a gasp; body drenched with sweat, heart pounding. His hands clasped the bed sheets as he waited for the distortion of darkness to be replaced by any form of light. Body trembling. _Just a nightmare_, his mind told him. He raised a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow while using the other to push his back away from the bed—black tank top clinging to him like glue.

After a few deep breaths and a moment of reassuring, his mind slipped back to the nightmare that awoke him with such startle.

He couldn't bring his mind back to it.

He didn't want to.

Those lifeless eyes and—

No.

His eyes peered over to the other side of the bed. _He_ wasn't there. With his heart still racing, body trembling and mind excessively clouded, Germany abandoned his bed and rushed down the hallway to find his Italian ally.

He checked the kitchen first in hopes of finding him there for a late midnight snacking of pasta. He wasn't, nor had he already due to the absence of pasta morsels scattered amongst the tablecloth. With his blood rushing more with worry, he headed for the other's bedroom.

The blond didn't know why he had checked the kitchen first. Maybe it was because he was always so used to the Italian being in that one particular room; day and night. Though the German often had too much pride to admit it, he loved the other nation's cooking almost as much as he loved his beer. But it wasn't only about the taste, no, it was partially watching the other's pure enjoyment and passion of it all. The smiles and happy sighs went along perfectly with the graceful dance—not once had the German man heard a sound of dissatisfaction from the Italian's lips. And when the time came for the first bight of each dish Italy had served him, not once had the German man critiqued it with disapproval. The chef's reward was his guest's approval, and the chef's prize was his very own smile. A smile like that, the blue-eyed man always told himself, could never be broken easily.

Germany stood in front of the Italian's door not questioning his clouded mind as to why he was there. He briefly hesitated for a moment; either he was afraid of disturbing the other man, or he was afraid of what was behind the door. What if he hadn't woken up from his nightmare yet? His body finally moved and softly pushed the door open.

The blond could only hear the beating of his heart and the silence around him as he peered into the Italian's room. Sight was more important than sound at this moment—such dim light turned out to be the brightest light there was. With the lightest steps he could take, Germany slowly began to walk to where Italy slept.

He did not know why he was here, looking down upon the moonlight-kissed face of the pasta loving Italian. He did not know what drove him to watch the soft breaths escape the others lips. He only knew that this was Italy.

This was not the face of that solider, this was the face of Italy. There was happiness in his face, even as he slept, and there was the renowned joyfulness shown even when none was being portrayed. Germany knelt down and blindly reached out to caress the Italian's face.

This was Italy.

The blonde's mind suddenly became clear as he felt the warm and soft skin come in contact with his rough and callused hands. The feeling was so foreign to him—the cold leather that bound his fingers never detected a feeling such as this. It was beautiful.

This was the reason as to why he was here: to make sure he was awake. Germany felt the invisible weights lift from his shoulders and a mental sigh finally exhale. He pushed the Italian's bangs gently aside to get a better view of his sleeping face.

This was a new sight for him. Yes, he had seen the other in a peaceful slumber before, but this…this was new. The way his eyes laid gently closed, the way his lips were parted in a slight smile, the way his body was so still rather than constantly on the move—beautiful. He felt the Italian lean his face farther into his palm and saw a small smile tug at his lips.

_What's wrong with me?_

The thought felt like a splash of cold water as it hit him. His thought was right. This wasn't him. He pulled his hand away from the other's cheek and watched as his smile weakened in the slightest. Now the flood of questions filled his mind.

So did the solider.

Germany looked away from the sleeping Italian and left without a sound. He didn't go back to his room—sleeping just didn't feel right. Instead, he went back to the kitchen.

He sat there; sat in the uncomfortable wooden chair in his usual spot. His hands were laced together, elbows propped up on the table to support his head. He listened to each barley auditable tick of the clock on the near wall, listened as each beat seemed to pace slower and slower and listened to his heartbeat do the same as he shut his eyes.

"Germany, are you alright?"

The German jumped and turned to face the voice. There the fake solider was—standing in the doorway with his finger still on the light switch; hazel eyes curious as he looked at the blond.

"Germany?"

Hearing his name again awoke his mind. He looked away and rubbed his tired eyes to readjust them to the light. "I'm sorry, Italy," he said groggily. "I…must have dozed off."

"In the kitchen?" The Italian walked towards the other. "Are you feeling sick?"

Germany caught his breath as he suddenly felt the warmth of a hand press gently to his forehead. The hand was far beyond that of a soldier's. "Italy, I'm fi—"

"I know," Italy removed his hand from the other's forehead, "you're hungry!" He ran over to one of the many cabinets. "I'll make you some pasta! What kind would you like? Fettuccine, linguine, penne—" he paused suddenly and stared blankly at the empty cabinet shelf.

Oh, that's right… Germany hates it when Italy makes pasta in the middle of the night. He tried to remind the other. "You know I—" but cut himself short as he saw Italy begin to climb on top of the counter. No matter how many times he tries to hide it from him, he still finds it without a problem. The blond now saw that keeping it out of reach didn't work either.

Germany sighed heavily before he stood and walked over to assist the Italian. With one gentle scoop of his muscular arms, the brunet's feet were on the ground in seconds. "Italy," the German tried again as he reached for a random box of pasta, "you know I don't like it when you cook in the dead of night. What if you catch something on fire and I'm not awake to put it out?"

"Well," Italy paused and pondered as he was handed his beloved pasta. "I would do my best to wake up Germany as quickly as possible!"

_Yes, of course you would_. The blonde's mind went blank once again. He was tired, groggy, and, most importantly, not thinking clearly. And before he knew it, he was already to the doorway.

"Germany?"

His body stopped from walking any further to face the small Italian. Worry is what his mind processed when he met those hazel eyes; the next being concern.

"What about your pasta?"

All the German could do was shake his head. "Es tut mir leid, Italien." He walked away once more. "I'm not feeling well..."

Sleeping wasn't working and the blond _knew_ it wasn't going to work. It wasn't like him to give up on something so easily, but this was an exception. "It hasn't even been a full minute yet…" He opened his eyes, blinked, and shut them again to give rest a final try. But, that wasn't going to happen as he suddenly felt someone tackle him. Using his normal fighting response, Germany flipped the enemy onto the bed and pinned his wrists down. Looking closely at his attacker, whose eyes were tightly shut with fear, the German could only scold a question.

"How many times must I tell you _not_ to do that while I'm sleeping!"

"I'm sorry I'm sorry! When I heard you mumbling I thought you were awake!" Italy struggled within Germany's grip. "Germany, please, let me go. It hurts…"

Said Germany released his grip and froze once he saw the teary eyes of his ally. A solider would never complain about the pain he is inflicted, nor would a solider turn away in fear. The Italian suddenly embraced the body looming over him.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, "but you worried me. I just wanted to make sure you were alright…that's all."

That sudden rush of adrenalin made Germany's mind forget about sleeping. Now, feeling the warmth and softness of the other's body, he could justify his nightmare from the real thing. Gently, the blond lowered his ally onto the soft matrass and embraced him, just as the body beneath had done.

_What has that dream done to me? I've never felt so calm just…holding him. _Germany held the Italian closer and drew in his scent._ I've never wanted to hold him this closely before…_

Italy put his lips close to the other's ear. "Please, tell me what's wrong," he whispered. "I promise not to tell anyone."

The blond hesitated for a moment and shut his eyes as Italy began to stroke his un-gelled locks. "I just had a bad nightmare, that's all."

"Dreams come true, Ludwig, not nightmares."

'_Ludwig_' opened his eyes. Italy only used his real name when he really wanted Germany to listen to him—whether it was for teasing or serious. He pulled away from the embrace and stared down at his ally. There that moonlight-kissed face was once again. The renowned joyfulness was soft in his hazel eyes, in his cheek bones and smile. Ludwig blindly reached down and caressed the soft skin.

Beautiful.

Germany watched the Italian's eyes shut and smile widen in response to the gentle contact. He ran his hand slowly through the soft rusty locks and let it linger there to watch each strand lace away from in between his long and calloused fingers. The lingering hand ghostly trailed back down to the warm cheek. Italy's smile faded as he placed his small hand on top of the larger one and leaned farther into the warm palm. "Germany is acting so strange tonight."

Ludwig suddenly sat up and moved to the other side of the bed. He quickly stared blankly at nothing—realizing and questioning his recent actions. "I'm sorry, Feliciano." He rubbed his templates as the blood rushed to his cheeks. "I'm too dazed to think clearly…or even think at all, for that matter. Forgive me."

"Ludwig, do you remember that nightmare I once had? The one with you and Kiku?" Ludwig ceased his 'calming' therapy to look at the Italian that now sat in front of him.

Yes, he remembered. Feliciano had dreamt his two allies had forgotten him—wanted nothing to do with even a little bit of his mere existence. They wouldn't look at him, acknowledge him, speak; anything. More importantly, Ludwig wouldn't. Ludwig…his captor, his ally. His friend. It hurt the Italian for weeks, even after he wrote that note to Ludwig. Even after the pact they had made, that "pinky swear", that promise Ludwig had promised. He intended to keep that promise forever.

"Did that nightmare ever come true?"

Ludwig looked away. "No…" He paused and thought for a moment. "This is different, Feliciano."

"How so?"

"Because it could come true."

Silence filled the room as hazel eyes met blue. The blond could feel the curiosity and confusion on his ally's face and could see it perfectly within the eerie moonlight.

"How…so?"

Another pause. Ludwig straightened his back against the bedframe and looked away once again. "You were a…" he didn't know how to say this, "a very…advanced solider."

The Italian made a noise of confusion. "But I thought you wanted me to become one—"

"No!" The exclamation made both allies jump. The German looked back to Feliciano almost guiltily. His words were soft, "no, Feliciano."

"Then what do you want me to be?" the brunet questioned disappointedly as he sat a little closer to Ludwig. "Why do you train me so hard if it's for nothing?"

"That's not what I mean."

"Please, don't give up on me, Ludwig. I'll try harder, I'll listen more, and I'll be on time!"

"That's—"

"A-and I'll quit sleeping so much!"

"N—"

"I'll learn to hold a gun properly and I'll aim perfe—"

"You're not meant to be a solider, Feliciano!" Ludwig couldn't believe his barked words. "You were _never_ meant to be one!"

The Italian remained silent. He opened his mouth to speak, but then looked out the window. That's when the German saw him begin to move away.

He suddenly embraced the smaller body once again, only to be surprised to feel him embrace back tightly.

"I'm sorry I disappoint you so much, but please," Ludwig could hear the forming tears in his voice, "please don't give up on me."

"Feliciano, I don't want you to become a solider." His words were soft. "You're not made to be something you're not."

"Why not?"

The German thought for a moment. "Well," he pulled away from the embrace, "let's start from the bottom." Gently, he placed his hands atop Feliciano's small feet. "These feet aren't made for being blistered by heavy combat boots, nor trudging and sprinting in a mixture of soaked dirt and blood." He ran his hands up to the knees. "These legs aren't made for charging at an enemy from a faraway region or running wildly in a haze of gunfire." Hands moved to hips. "These hips aren't made for being bashed and bruised when they are punched and kicked in hand to hand combat, and neither is this stomach." Ludwig poked that stomach and made the Italian giggle. His hands moved atop the small shoulders. "These shoulders aren't made to have a heavy uniform weigh them down." Hands moved down the feeble arms. "And these arms aren't strong enough to carry a rifle that's half your own size, nor meant to feel the painful sting of a grazed bullet." The German's hands then slowly traced down to the other's. "These hands…" Feliciano laced his small, smooth fingers with the rough and ridged ones. "These hands aren't made to feel the cold surface of a _Sturmgewehr_ through leather gloves. They are not made to crush the throats of foe, break bones, shatter them, none of that. They…they are made for cooking excellent cuisines, painting beautiful artwork and playing sweet melodies." Ludwig then looked up into the brunet's eyes and cupped his face. "This face isn't made for being drenched with sweat and others' spilled blood. Mud, grime, and dirt alike. Your eyes are not made for watching your allies die right in front of you. They are not made to see blood pour from wounds, bullets pierce hearts, blades cut skin, and death enter fallen bodies. You are not made to hear the screams of agony and pain as you watch them die, either." He tapped the Italian lightly on the nose, earning another giggle. "You're not meant to smell the burning flesh of men exposed to a single grenade or the gunpowder residue on everything that surrounds you. And your lips…" Ludwig paused and stared at those light pink lips. "Your lips…" Feliciano suddenly leaned his face closer to the German's. The other could only do the same until their lips were lightly touching. And then their eyes shut and a light kiss was shared.

Feliciano pulled away and smiled. "Are made for doing that."


End file.
